


Menders

by Ghostinthehouse



Category: Cadfael Chronicles - Ellis Peters, The Witch's Brat - Rosemary Sutcliff
Genre: Gen, Yuletide Madness, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-02-11 23:56:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12946812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostinthehouse/pseuds/Ghostinthehouse
Summary: Two healers meet in a monastery garden.





	Menders

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cefyr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cefyr/gifts).



> "You will be one of the menders of this world. Not one of the makers, nor yet one of the breakers, but simply one of the menders."

_In the year of our Lord 1120._

On the way north to Woodstock, one of the horses lost a shoe and as a result the party stopped for a day at the New Minster. Fortunately, the horse had not gone lame. Having seen to his own horse, with an extra thorough check of its feet for good measure, Cadfael found himself at something of a loose end. The gentle hum of bees and scent of herbs drew him to the physic gardens and, finding a convenient bench by the hedge, he took a seat to study it. A wall of uneven stones clearly repurposed from some older building formed a wind shield on two sides, with the afternoon sun gilding the wall the colour of fresh-baked bread. The herbs made a bright show of flower and leaf, from the tall spurs of foxglove against the wall to the marigold edging making a barrier against slugs, and showed all the signs of having a skilled pair of hands in charge of it. Further evidence of that lay in the basket of weeds left half filled by one of the beds. Cadfael considered getting down to help out whoever it was. For all that these were mainly local plants and not those of the Holy Land that he had once tended, there would be a distinct pleasure in bringing order to a garden like this.

Before he was more than briefly tempted, sandaled footsteps sounded on the path, and the owner of the basket limped into view. He was a slender youth with a lay brother's habit, a thatch of dark hair, and lopsided shoulders that suggested that the limp was from birth rather than injury. He stopped when he saw Cadfael and cocked his head a little to one side like a wary bird. "Are you looking for the herbalist, master? Brother John is in the Infirmary, I think."

"I'm no man's master, just a simple man at arms, Cadfael by name." Cadfael shook his head. "I was simply admiring the gardens. I learned something of herbs myself in the Holy Land and was at liberty." He stayed where he was, on the bench, with his hands clearly visible as a sign of peace - an unremarkable middle-aged man, not overly tall, but solid, with the mark of weapons on his belt, and a face browned under a hotter sun than England's. "I take it you're one of those who cares for the gardens here, lad? What's your name?"

Pleasure flickered across the youngster's face. "I've worked in them a little over two years now, since they learned how much my grandmother taught me." A late butterfly settled for a moment on a marigold, delicate blue wings half-folded, then took off again. "My name is Lovel. Do they do things very differently in the Holy Land?"

Cadfael considered the question. "I would not say different, so much as skilled in ways few are here. Cuts and breaks and bruises are much the same the world over, but some of the herbs they grow do badly over here, and the same in reverse. They do have a way with longer term healing though - illnesses and more."

"They do? Would you - would you tell me about it?" A bright eagerness flashed in the youngster's eyes, and then dropped as if a shadow passed over it. "If..."

Cadfael simply nodded, and did his best to exude cheerful friendliness. It rather appeared as if this youngster had already encountered the darker side of life and people, but Cadfael had met other soul-bruised people on Crusade and found friendship a balm for it that couldn't be matched by herbs. "I'd not want to keep you from your work," he said, "but I dare say I'm not the only one that can weed and listen at the same time?"

That bought him a bob of the head and a shy glimmer of a smile as the youngster resumed his progress to the basket and knelt to continue his efforts, skilled hands picking out the weeds from among the herbs as deftly as a blackbird hauls a worm from the soil. He settled himself more comfortably on the bench and drew one tale of many from the lessons in his mind. "I took the cross young, and stayed on in Antioch after the fall. While I was there..."


End file.
